A Dysfuntional Marriage, But No Less Love
by Elira Winter
Summary: Charles/Erik - Erik is married to his mistakes, Charles is married to his memories, but they'll always be together; for better or for worse.
1. Married

**Married**

When they bloom back onto the earth at some kind of apartment in some city _somewhere_, Raven and Angel immediately start talking, albeit in subdued tones, while the windmaker and teleporter sit on nearby couches, watching cautiously, assessing. Erik takes note of the metal on each mutant's clothing, then turns to the huge bay windows and realises his fist is clenched around something small.

He looks at it, and jolts. It's the misshapen lead bullet, crusted with the scarlet blood of the man he loves, warm from his hand and the phantom clench of Charles' body.

Everything hits Erik at once, then; is Charles alright? What were the injuries Moira - no, the injuries he himself had dealt? Would Charles pine for his sister, would he miss Erik? Would he long for lengthy chess games over whisky, in a bed together all languid and pliant and sweaty afterwards? Kisses in corridors? Would Charles still want the bright weight of a ring on his left hand, a circle of unique metal that Erik would put there? They had talked about it, in half-whispers and tentative telepathy, but now. Now.

The bullet thrums with guilt and almost without a command from Erik, it floats up and twists onto the ring finger of his left hand, where a wedding ring would embrace him, where none now ever would. For Erik is married to his mistakes, married to Charles' pain, married to the divorce on the beach that would haunt him forever.

The ring gleams malevolently, grey and red, and Raven places a sapphire blue hand on his shoulder.

"What now?" she asks.

"We need a telepath," he says firmly, turning to face the other mutants, his mind so, so empty. Charles.

"I will take you," says the teleporter, Azazel, Erik recalls. "Emma Frost, she is in the CIA facility. She would be…grateful to be removed."

Erik nods and gestures for the mutants to gather around. "Let's go."

The ring orbits his finger as a cold moon clings to a dying star.


	2. Wedding

**Wedding**

The mansion feels empty, so empty without Erik and Raven and happiness.

Sean and Hank and Alex are quiet, and maybe Charles shouldn't have sent Moira away, maybe they need a mother figure, but Erik hadn't liked her. And she'd tried to _kiss _Charles, and that wouldn't do at all, because even if Erik wasn't next to him, Charles still _belonged_…

He didn't want to have to avoid her advances while longing for the same contact from someone he'd never have again.

* * *

It's hard, not feeling his legs, moving to stand up from his wheelchair and then realising –

There was one time when he'd burrowed his way into a book and forgotten, then Alex had found him on the floor in tears and had to go and get Hank to help him up. It's good that there is still someone strong in the house to lift him up.

Charles battles his humiliation every night when Hank carries him up the stairs, cocooning him in the blue softness of his fur, until he reaches the bedroom. The boy always hovers after that, thoughts concerned and caring, asking if he needs any help with anything, he's here for Charles, always. Charles smiles and declines, every time, before telling Hank to get some rest and knowing that he'll just go down to his lab again.

* * *

A simple elevator shows up overnight.

"It's only temporary," says Hank, "Just until I can get something better up and running." Charles can hear Hank's thoughts without even trying, and he's thinking that this'd all be a lot easier if they had a metal-manipulator about.

* * *

The boys are faring better than him, at least.

Hank's grown into his new body - he's more confident, protective and aggressive now, won't put up with teasing or taunting, fighting back and asserting himself instead.  
(Charles wants to study his mind, wonders if he has heightened senses, wonders if he can smell the pain, the regret and loss that clings to Charles skin.)

He's earned Alex's respect now, Sean's awe, and Charles thinks it admirable that three such different boys have banded together, become stronger in the wake of the upheaval. More often than not, Charles finds them thrown together in a pile on the fold-out bed in front of the television at night; Hank snoring softly, furred arm around Alex who's nestled into his side with Sean sprawled haphazardly next to them.

Charles covers them with blankets and takes his makeshift elevator up to his own room, to languish in his own bed and dream of someone else hugging him close.

* * *

Nights are filled with half-memory-half-dream visions, trembling with pleasure and happiness. There's Raven, who flits in and out of his mind like her namesake, laughing and smiling, blue and blonde and perfect. There's Darwin sometimes, tall and talented, hands resting possessively over Alex's chest. Then Hank, shy and jittery and lanky and tall to snarling and furry and still a genius.

But most of all, there's Erik, Erik Lehnsherr who is beautiful and sharp-edged, breaking and loving, angry and serene all at once.

Charles dreams that Erik's embracing him. He dreams of Erik on the satellite, Erik flying, Erik grinning that wide grin with all his teeth showing and eyes crinkling at the corners, Erik shedding a single tear of joy, Erik pacing as his muscles twitch from being held back, Erik twirling a Nazi coin around his slender fingers, Erik drinking black coffee at the kitchen table.

Charles dreams that Erik's fucking him. He dreams that Erik's caging him in his powerful arms, sliding into him with sure strokes, gasping with his mouth next to Charles' ear, and Charles recalls the guttural sound of Erik's moans. Erik's mouthing at his collarbone, sucking at his neck. Erik's gripping his hips, hard enough to leave fingerprints burned into Charles' pale skin; tangling his legs between Charles' and plastering himself up against Charles' back, holding him so close that Charles can feel his racing heartbeat, can imagine that their blood is blending together, their fears and their victories becoming one.

Charles dreams that Erik's loving him. He dreams of Erik holding his hand beneath the boughs of the oak tree on the Westchester grounds, kissing him chastely on the lips, the forehead, sliding a warm ring onto his finger. He dreams that the ring tightens to fit him perfectly, a miniature hug, part of Erik always with him. He dreams of the ring circling on his finger, sliding softly as a snake, and he dreams of Erik's eyes.

Charles dreams that they want the same thing.

* * *

It's a week or so before Charles wheels himself to Erik's room, the room he never really used because he was usually in Charles' bed. Everything's a little bit dusty, and there's nothing on the floor – Erik's small number of possessions are on the cabinet, all his clothes folded neatly in the drawers, and the Nazi coin is nowhere to be found, of course. Charles runs his fingertips over the bedspread, then opens the cabinet drawers, suddenly desperate for the feel of Erik's black turtlenecks clutched in his hands. He raises the soft, worn fabric to his face and inhales; the scent of Erik is there, faintly, lingering under the smell of Charles' detergent and the mustiness of the drawers.

A scarlet square catches Charles' eye, so out of place amongst the black and beige, and before Charles even thinks he's picking it up. It's satiny and he opens it and, oh, it's a ring, it's a tasteful circle of unadorned silver and it's so _Erik _that tears bead in Charles' eyes. He remembers, then, how Erik had sometimes wished that they could marry, that they could belong to each other that way, carefully projecting those thoughts while shielding everything else behind his eyes. Erik might have bought this ring in town, bought it with Nazi gold or even stolen it, or – or he could have made it himself – and Charles sees etchings on the inside of the band, Erik's blocky text spelling out CHARLES XAVIER-LEHNSHERR like a demand or a wish or a statement or all three.

Charles closes his eyes, thinks of gentle lips and warm hands and slips the ring onto his finger.

He smiles, lets a tear trickle down his cheek, and says,

"I do."


	3. Vows

**Vows**

Charles wheels himself down the driveway of the school, smiling slightly, mind still awash with the thoughts of young, curious minds; some mutant, some human, all brilliant and beautiful.

That was what Erik always failed to see, Charles thinks. There will always be prejudices in the world, always Hitlers and Shaws – mankind used to put women down, attack people of dark skin, and now some humans decry mutants and some mutants loathe humans. The wonderful thing about children is that they're too young to hate. Everyone loves the girl who can make flowers grow. The boy with wings is the coolest kid on the block. People are gradually accepting; in this little town, it is a crime to hate a child, even if the she has scaly skin or he has glowing eyes. But Erik. Erik. Erik wants to take them away, grow them and shape them and warp them like Shaw did to him, as easily as he twists metal around his fingers, around Charles' wrists and his heart.

The silver ring is hidden under leather gloves, but it presses into his skin, the engraving on the inside of the band branding him with Erik's name. It's always there.

* * *

He is driven back to Westchester and Hank meets him at the driveway, teeth bared in agitation, twisting his thick clawed fingers together. After Charles extracts himself from the car, still clumsy and deep down embarrassed, he asks Hank what's wrong.

"We have a…visitor," he says, flicking his eyes away from Charles' face. "From, um, from the Brotherhood."

"Are they peaceful?"

"Yes."

"Hank. Is it – is it Raven?" Charles didn't know which person he hoped to see. Raven, who'd always had half of his heart, or Erik, to whom he'd given the other half, only to have it stolen from him.  
"Erik."

Oh.

"Well, lead the way, then."

"I left Sean and Alex with him. No metal on their suits. Just to be safe, you know?"

"Of course. Well done, my friend."

Erik and Sean and Alex came into view, arranged in a loose triangle on the grass, each keeping the others in their sights.

Charles sighed a little – even with custom wheels on his chair, grass was a hassle – but then Erik turned.

He was wearing a long maroon cape with a dark skintight outfit underneath, his helmet – the _helmet_, the dreaded helmet, Shaw's helmet and the embodiment of Erik's constant mistrust, even for Charles, all for Charles – was clasped at his hip, as one would hold a toddler, cradled gently. The whisper of Erik's thoughts was a mirage to Charles in the desert, and Charles knew that if he chased it, it would merely withdraw and leave him to die exhausted.

Erik's whisper-thoughts got louder as his eyes widened, as he saw Charles in the wheelchair, crippled and broken, and Charles was distantly thinking, oh, he didn't _know_, as Erik throws the helmet aside and runs towards him. Hank shifts by his side, muscles tensing, but Erik's there, suddenly, falling to his knees as tears fall from his bright, jaded eyes, Erik, Erik, Erik.

"Charles, Charles," he says, voice rough and shattered and everything Charles remembers, and the helmet lies on the earth a lifetime away.

"Erik," Charles replies, and his breath hitches as he runs his bare fingertips down Erik's cheekbones, his jaw, his hairline and ears, the lines that crinkle up at the corners of his eyes, wet with saltwater. "Darling," he says. "Come back," he says. "Don't leave," he says. Pleads. They're both crying now, Erik with his face buried in Charles' withering knees, Charles hunched over with his cheek pressed to Erik's hair.

* * *

When their emotions have subsided somewhat, sobs reduced to trembling breaths, they look each other in the eyes.

"I was wrong," Erik says with a slight frown. "I was wrong. I want what you want, Charles, there is no future without you by my side. I thought it would be different, without you, that I could build something…"

"You cannot kill the humans, Erik. They are our mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, lovers – they are who we are. You mustn't persecute them all for the crimes that only a few have committed."

"I see that now. Charles – Charles, I'll do anything. Forgive me for what pain I have caused."

"I forgave you long ago," Charles says. They may have been apart, they've hurt each other horribly, they've said things that can't be taken back, but Charles loves Erik. He does, and he thinks that he always will.

He looks down at Erik's hands that are stroking his unfeeling thighs.

There's a ring on his left hand, dull and steely and it looks rusted, stained with scarlet.

Erik sees him looking, and he takes Charles' left hand. The ring turns on Charles' finger, orbiting slowly, a moon caught in a gravitational field. Erik brings Charles' hand up to his temple.

"Look," he says. "I have no secrets now."

Charles presses his fingers to Erik's head and sees. There's the beach, there's Charles in the sand, there's the bullet wrapping around, God, around Erik's finger, _Erik_, then there's Raven and Angel with deadened eyes and Riptide and Azazel with their wordless communication, and Emma, who sees through Erik even with the helmet, and disappears as soon as they free her. There's Raven crying, Angel silent and surly again, and it's Azazel that takes Riptide's hand and before they smoke away says in his harsh accent that they'll seek out Xavier, with or without Erik, in one week, to request asylum. There's Raven crying again, Angel arguing with her and Erik holding his head in his helmet in his hands and feeling the blood-bullet-ring-vow tightening like a boa constrictor on his finger.

Charles surfaces with a gasp of air, tears threatening to fall again.

"Come home," he says. "Bring everyone. Teach them all, with me."

Erik nods, mind dazed and healing, thoughts an undercurrent of guilt and pain and sorry and, beneath it all, love. "I promise," Erik says. "And I love you."

The ring on Erik's finger cracks in two and falls.

Charles' slides off his hand and hovers, smoothly morphing into two, placing themselves into Erik's outstretched hand.

"Charles," he whispers. "Will you marry me?"

Charles picks up one of the rings and slides it onto Erik's finger.

"In sickness and in health. In living and in dying. In anger and in love. Erik. I will always be yours."

Erik picks up the other ring and cradles Charles' left hand as delicately as he'd hold gold filigree. The ring slips onto Charles' finger, warms, tightens and quivers.

"As I am yours," he murmurs.

They kiss.

* * *

Later, Charles will have his wedding under the oak tree, with Raven in a bright yellow sundress that clashes beautifully with her blue skin, the boys in t-shirts and shorts, Erik in a tuxedo and the grass dotted with new blooms – courtesy of the little girl from the primary school, who loves to make people smile.

Erik will be happier – the helmet hacked to pieces and buried somewhere far away, the bloodstained bullet disintegrated – and he will smile with all his teeth and his eyes creasing joyously as he leans down to kiss Charles' red lips.

They'll have gold, this time, that Charles bought and Erik shaped, with their joined names etched on the inside of the bands. They'll slip the rings onto each other's fingers, whispering their vows in their heads, and the rings will melt together, silver and gold and pain and contentment and separation and togetherness all in one, and they will share their hearts the same way.

They'll say,

"I do."


End file.
